


a little bottle dulls the pain

by winter_hiems



Category: The Grinning Man - Philips & Teitler/Grose & Morris & Philips & Teitler/Grose
Genre: Blind Character, Body Image, Canon Disabled Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Don't copy to another site, Drug Withdrawal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Mild Angst, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Sickfic, Sleepy Cuddles, canon blind character, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25627426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_hiems/pseuds/winter_hiems
Summary: Gwynplaine is never taking crimson lethe again; he can’t bear to forget what he’s learned about his past.That doesn’t make withdrawal any easier.
Relationships: Dea/Gwynplaine | Grinpayne | Gwynplaine Trelaw
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	a little bottle dulls the pain

**Author's Note:**

> Note: In this fic I am interpreting it as Gwynplaine taking the crimson lethe because of PTSD-induced phantom pains (and because Ursus encouraged it), not because his face is still healing after twenty years. (Obviously he started taking it because of the physical pain of his injury.)

Gwynplaine was sick. 

This was a rarity. In spite of the phantom pains that had lanced through his face for as long as he could remember, he’d rarely been ill. Dea had been the one who worried Ursus, frequently falling ill throughout her childhood, only growing into health and strength in the latter part of her teenage years. 

So yes, Gwynplaine being sick was a rarity. 

Looking back, they should have expected something like this. He’d been taking crimson lethe since he was a child; of course his body had formed a dependency on it. Of course he’d fallen ill now that he wasn’t drinking any more. 

The worst part was the fact that some part of him wanted crimson lethe. Gwynplaine didn’t want admit it to himself, but he had to, because he wanted the lethe. Not to forget – not that, never that – but that didn’t change the fact that the craving was omnipresent in his mind, lurking in the same corner of his head that held the blood in his nightmares and the horror of his dreams. 

When he started feeling the first effects of withdrawal – only a few hours after getting his memories back – Ursus had known what was wrong almost immediately, and he’d been nothing but apologetic. Not that there was much he could do to treat Gwynplaine; Gwyn would simply have to ride it out, cold turkey, waiting for his body’s dependence to subside. 

Until then, he wouldn’t be good for much. 

The cravings were the worst of it, but that wasn’t the entirety, not by a long shot. He was running a fever, and whenever he tried to stand, he felt faint. 

Gwynplaine had spent the previous day in bed, but this morning he’d forced himself out of it to lie on the sofa in one of the sitting rooms in his palace. (It was strange to think of it as _his_ palace, but lords had palaces, and this one belonged to him as it had belonged to his father and his ancestors before him.) 

Right now, he was seated on the end of the sofa that was closest to the fire, wrapped in blankets, silently wishing for the pounding in his head to cease. 

A noise at the door. He looked up. 

“Dea,” he said softly. 

“I brought you some soup,” she told him, and she made her way over to him slowly and carefully. The rooms of the palace were unfamiliar to her, and she’d only learned her way around a few. It was harder with Gwynplaine sick – normally if she wanted a guide, he would be her first choice, and Mojo couldn’t guide her through everything. 

Dea found the table and set down the tray. “Ursus said you need to eat.” 

Gwynplaine suppressed a yawn before replying. He hadn’t got more than five hours sleep the previous night, and eventually he’d slipped out from the bed he shared with Dea to spend the rest of the night in a different room, not wanting his insomnia to keep her awake. “Thanks, but I feel too sick to eat.” The nausea had become almost as ever-present as the cravings. 

“Gwynplaine, please. You can’t starve yourself, you need your strength to get through this.” 

She looked so worried. He couldn’t disappoint her. 

Gwynplaine managed to spoon down almost half the soup. It wasn’t easy with a pounding head and constant nausea and hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, but somehow he managed to eat without spilling, and it was worth it for Dea’s look of relief. 

Once he’d set the bowl down, she sat beside him and took his hand. He was unable to disguise the tremor in it. She felt his forehead. “Gwyn, you’re burning up!” 

“Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise, it’s not your fault.” 

“Except it is, sort of. If I’d been better at bearing the pain, if I’d taken less crimson lethe…” 

Dea tucked herself under Gwynplaine’s blankets so that they were as close together as possible. “You were hurting. You didn’t know what the crimson lethe was doing to you. You shouldn’t blame yourself.” 

“Dea, I _did it to myself_. And now, when I’m supposed to be helping Angelica build a better world, I’m lying on the sofa, too sick to stand up!” 

She pulled him towards her, wrapping her arms around him until his face was tucked into the crook of her neck. He wanted to stay like that forever, wrapped up in Dea where nothing could ever hurt him. Her hair brushed his cheek; she smelled like lavender. 

His hands were still shaking. He couldn’t stop it. 

Dea murmured “Shh,” and started gently stroking his hair. He closed his eyes. His head still ached. “It’ll be alright, Gwynplaine. Ursus said that in a week or so you’ll be feeling better. And then we can do anything. Anything, okay?” She kissed his cheek, just above where the scars started. 

Gwyn pulled back slightly so that they were facing each other, the blankets falling away slightly, holding Dea’s steady hands in his own shaking ones. “Dea, Ursus said that I might be craving crimson lethe for the next two years.” 

She squeezed his hands. “And you’ll get through it. I’ll be with you the entire time. You’ll be alright. You’ve already come so far: you remember what happened to you, you remember what your parents looked like, you can heal.” She raised one of his hands to her mouth and kissed it. “You’re already healing.” 

Gwynplaine leaned forwards until their heads touched. It felt like a long road ahead of him. A long road and a difficult one, but it was also the best road available. The best way to live a good life. “Stay with me?” he said. 

Dea kissed him softly. “Of course.” 

They curled up together, Gwynplaine leaning so that his cheek was pressed to the top of Dea’s head. Dea pulled the blankets closer around them, keeping in the warmth. 

His head still ached and his body still trembled, but he’d get better. Dea was here, and he’d get better. 

Once the sickness had passed he’d start building a better world, and someday the craving for crimson lethe would be gone, and through all of it Dea would be by his side. 

The candles had burned low, and the flickering fire wasn’t providing much more light. Gwynplaine didn’t notice. He was dozing off with Dea tucked up against him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is of course lyrics from the song Labyrinth.
> 
> I based Gwynplaine’s withdrawal symptoms off medically recognised painkiller withdrawal symptoms.
> 
> Dea is very sickly in The Man Who Laughs, so I continued that here, though she’s much healthier as an adult.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome <3
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. I am not making money from this work.


End file.
